“Ok kid, hook ‘em up.”
“Are you sure this is gonna work. It’s highly unorthodox, as far as interrogation procedures go…”
“Take it easy, kid. If we fry ‘em, we won’t have to go out for lunch,” says the older, still well-built man, winking at John Smith in that manly yet wholesome kind of way.
“Uh, hello. Where am I? I don’t know what this is all about. I think you guys have the wrong person. My name is Zippy Zamazda and I’m a professional…”
“We know who you are, Zippy. We just want to ask you a few questions, and then you can go on your merry way,” says the older still well-built man.
Responding from behind the blindfold, “Oh, ok. But I still think you’re making a mistake.”
“Now?”
“Now, kid.”
A jolt of electricity is sent along thick rubber insulated cables that traverse the floor, finally reaching up onto a steel skull cap that firmly encases the pleated fat facial features of the American wordsmith.
“What is your relationship to Josh Davies?”
“Ugh, gah, gah goo, goo. I only saw him once… at a dinner party where I was serving drinks on hire to Rico Soiree…”
“Did you see any Viagra being used on this occasion?”
“Ugh, gah, gah, goo. No… None… honest.”
“What else happened that night, Zippy?”
“Uh, dunno…”
“Increase the voltage, kid.”
“Ahh, oh, ho, ho ho… ok, ok. I pulverized The Ferret to death with a meat tenderizer… boohoo-hoo. Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Holy hand grenades! Did you hear that?”
“Unhook him, kid, and have Vasily drop him off on Trukhaniv Island.”
“But he’s just admitted to murder.”
“That’s a Ferret-related offense, kid – and out of our jurisdiction for now,” then shortly, “Bring in the next one.”
“Chief, I have my doubts about this one,” Smith whispers in the well-built man’s ear, “he plays with dolls for heaven’s sake!”
“A suspect’s a suspect, kid,” now looking pensive, “and get a search warrant for that dollhouse while you’re at, will you please?”
The switch is flipped again and a dose of high voltage electricity surges through the cables, up into the steel skull cap that encases its victim’s head.
“OOOH, that hurrrrts!”
“You’re damn right it does… Lemurov!”
“Chief, look at his hands!”
Lemurov, whose face has frozen into a dumb but blissful smile, lies stiff as a board on the board, but his hands have begun fluttering like sparrows’ wings, as if he were trying to fly up and away from his current predicament to a more pleasant setting not so far away.
“I’ll be the son of a biscuit eater.”
“Oh, yes, geeve eet to heem, Rico, oh, yes, you just get heem and geeve eet to heeeeem…!!!” Lemurov begins to mumble, as if talking in his sleep.
“Steady on, kid, ease up on that dial ever so gently.”
Then, “Oh, no, Rico. No! Don’t! Stop! Don’t stop, don’t stop… you passionate, impetuous fool!”
“Ugh – what was that all about?”
“Shut up, kid!”
And then, “Josh, oh Josh. Pleeze get up, Josh.”
The lights go out – apparently a short circuit. When illumination returns, the two men are sitting in a small room with a wooden table, three chairs and a projector screen neatly folded up in the corner.
A lit cigarette smokes in the older man’s mouth. He looks like he’s either in feeble resignation and about to cry, or trying to remember something but given up.
“Talk to me, Chief.”
“I didn’t know things had gone so far.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Davies, The Ferret, and now Soiree … Son of a bitch!”
“I don’t follow you … You’re gonna have to connect the dots. Don’t go getting whacky on me, like Dickerson and Step… Chief ?!?
Back in the room with the water board and the thick, rubber insulated cables steps Step with a bottle of John Walker in his hand… the cap nowhere to be seen. Dickerson follows him dragging a stiff-haired figure in a headlock with the rest of his near-naked and mud-splattered body kicking wildly behind.
“Put him on the board.”
“You know, we could get, urgh, fired for this,” says Dickerson, still struggling to tie the animal boy to the water board.
“Yeah, right.”
“Are you really a writer?”
“Huh, I should be asking you that … Ahhhh!”
Dickerson stands smiling guiltily at the switch: “Sorry Jack, my hand slipped.”
“What’s that stupid-assed circle supposed to have meant in your last SUPPOSED novel?”
“It’s about these grungy kids in upstate New York, who morph … AHHHHHH!”
“I never touched it Jack, honestly.”
“Yeah, I know. I got a master switch under my chair.”
“Who fired Saint Stephan – speak, you stiff-haired son of a glorified pill pusher!!!”
“It was me, all right – but the first time, before the revolt against that dick-wad Seth Sundance. He didn’t know how to run a paper, so I wanted to fuck him… and his paper too.”
“So, you admit to firing Saint Stephan – THE FIRST TIME – is that it?”
“Yeah, I said so. Do you want me to write you a book – AHHHHHHH!”
“No, but I’m gonna write you one, Animal Boy. You see, my partner and I here know full well that before you started running around in your skivvies up in the hills surrounding Kyiv – molesting unsuspecting hikers in between sorties down to the local McDonald’s in search of cheese-stained wrappers – you were destined for a most mundane career as a wanna-be writer – is that not true?”
The lights go out again, leaving Step and Dickerson in the dark with the shared knowledge that Animal Boy has somehow escaped.
“I’m going down to the Lemon.”
“Mind if I join you?”
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, June 16, 2013